I never thought I’d let my neighbor join me on a two-month solo road trip. I mean, that’s not the kind of thing you plan for. You think I’ll pack light, keep to myself, maybe find something out there that feels more real than whatever you left behind. You don’t think Diana’s coming, too.

 I’m Nathan, 26, and I’ve been living in the same neighborhood in Oregon for about 5 years now. Quiet place, mostly older folks, a few families, not much happening. I bought an old camper van off Craigslist last year called it Aurora after the first girl I ever kissed and I’ve been fixing her up in my free time. New tires, upgraded battery, mini fridge, blackout curtains.

 She wasn’t flashy, but she was mine. The idea of hitting the road alone had been building for a while. One dead-end job after another, some failed relationships, and just this constant hum in my head like, “Is this it?” I told myself I needed to get away, unplug for a while, clear my head, reset. Diana lived two houses down. 41.

 Divorced way out of my league if we’re being honest. I knew her mostly from wave and smile interactions, mailboxes, trash days, the occasional small talk when she was trimming her hedges and I was heading out. She always had this way of making eye contact that lingered a little too long.

 confident, amused, like she knew more than she was saying. The day before I left, she saw me loading the van. Cooler, tools, a hammock, and walked over with a coffee in one hand and her little dog under the other arm. Going off to find yourself, Nathan, she joked. “Something like that?” I smiled, pushing a box deeper into the back. “Need company?” she added, half laughing, clearly kidding.

 Sure,” I said, matching her tone. “Bring snacks.” We both laughed, and she walked away, shaking her head. I didn’t think twice about it. The next morning, I was finishing up my checklist when I heard the sound of a suitcase rolling down the driveway. I turned around and there she was, Diana. Sunglasses on, weekend bags slung over her shoulder, and a wheeled suitcase trailing behind her like this was the most normal thing in the world.

 I just blinked. Wait, you’re serious? She raised an eyebrow. You said bring snacks. I also said I was going alone and now you’re not. I looked at her for a long moment. I wasn’t annoyed, not really. Just thrown. There was a part of me that wanted to laugh it off. Tell her no way. But another part, the quieter, more curious part, wondered what it might be like to have someone sitting in the passenger seat. Someone like her.

 I glanced at Aurora, then at Diana, then nodded once. “Hope you don’t snore,” she grinned. “Only when I’m drunk.” We both knew this wasn’t normal. And when she tossed her bag into the van like she’d been doing this for years, I realized I didn’t mind. Not one bit. The neighbors definitely noticed. I saw old Mr.

 Talbot from across the street peeking over his newspaper as Diana climbed into the front seat. A woman pushing a stroller slowed down just enough to double take. I could practically hear the stories forming in their heads. I didn’t care. We pulled out just after 9:00 a.m. The sky was overcast, but the road stretched open like an invitation.

 I played a classic rock playlist I’d made the night before. She made fun of my music taste. I made fun of her enormous travel mug that barely fit in the cup holder. For the first hour or so, it was mostly silence with a few awkward comments about traffic and clouds. I kept wondering if this was a mistake. Not because of her, but because of what it might become.

 Two people in close quarters for weeks. That’s a recipe for disaster or something else entirely. Then somewhere outside Salem, she pointed at a giant billboard shaped like a donut and said, “If we don’t stop there, I’m calling the trip off.” I laughed. “You’re already threatening mutiny? You have no idea.” We stopped. The donuts were terrible, but the joke lasted the rest of the day.

 And just like that, the silence turned into something easier, something playful, something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing until she climbed into that van. I thought I was running away from everything. Turns out I was just heading towards something I didn’t see coming. By day three, Diana had fully claimed the passenger seat like it was hers from the beginning.

 Her sunglasses lived in the cup holder. Her scarf was draped over the dash. She kept a little pouch of almonds in the glove compartment and made me pull over constantly for things like the world’s largest cow statue or antique thimbles. I thought I’d be annoyed, but the truth, I kind of liked the chaos she brought.

 We didn’t have a real destination, just a general westward aim. I’d mapped out a loose route through Oregon into Northern California, then maybe down the coast. I used to think solo travel meant freedom, no one to consult, no compromises. But watching her navigate roadside attractions on her phone, gas station snacks in her lap, talking about the oddest things with this effortless confidence.

 Something about it felt freer than anything I’d planned. She loved the weird, the forgotten, the kitschy. We stopped at a tiny museum that only displayed vintage telephones. Another town had a haunted saloon with mannequins and cowboy hats and a bartender who swore a ghost once slapped him during karaoke. Diana was allin. She took pictures, chatted up strangers, and kept calling these places perfectly ridiculous.

 At one diner in a tiny town off the main highway, we got seated in a booth by the window. The waitress, young, maybe early 20s, kept glancing between us as she handed out menus. I noticed. So did Diana. As the waitress walked away, Diana leaned in and whispered. “She’s trying to figure us out,” I smirked, trying to decide if I’m your son or your mistake.

 “She’s hoping for mistake,” she said, then took a sip of her coffee like it was nothing. “I laughed too loud, then quickly bit my lip.” “Diana didn’t flinch. She never seemed uncomfortable about the age gap, not even when it was clearly on people’s minds. me. I was still adjusting. I caught myself watching her a little too long sometimes.

 Wondering how someone like her ended up here with someone like me. That night, we pulled into a quiet campground by a lake. Not many people around, just a few other campers tucked beneath the trees. Diana stretched her arms dramatically when she got out of the van. I call the bed, she said without hesitation. I blinked. Seriously? Absolutely.

 My back does not do sleeping bags anymore. Could have argued. I didn’t. I just rolled out my mat on the floor and muttered something about chivalry being dead. You’re too much of a gentleman, she teased, peeking over the seat with her hair down. It’s suspicious. I grinned through the darkness.

 Would you prefer I wrestle you for it? No, she said, already pulling the covers up. You’d lose. We both laughed. That night, I laid there staring at the curved ceiling of the van, listening to her soft breathing above me. Something had shifted. We were still just travel companions on paper. But the dynamic wasn’t what it had been. She’d stopped being my neighbor who happened to tag along.

 Somewhere between the giant donut and the haunted saloon, she’d become something else. A presence I noticed even when she wasn’t speaking. The next morning, I woke up to the smell of instant coffee and the quiet hum of water boiling on our little camp stove. Diana was outside in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair pulled up messily, holding two mugs.

 She handed me one without saying a word, her eyes half-litted in the morning light. I took it and sat next to her on a folding chair. The lake was still. A few birds skimmed the surface. It felt like we were the only two people in the world. You ever think about just keeping going? She asked suddenly. No destination, no timeline, just road all the time, I said.

 She nodded slowly. Thought so. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. Something about the silence felt earned. As we packed up and hit the road again, Diana made me stop at a roadside stand selling authentic UFO memorabilia. She bought a keychain shaped like a spaceship.

 I watched her talk to the old guy behind the counter like they were old friends. I stood there, coffee in hand, realizing this trip, this whole unplanned, unfiltered, impossible pairing, was already becoming the best decision I’d made in years. We’d been on the road for almost 2 weeks when I realized I wasn’t keeping track of time anymore.

 Something happens when you’re driving for hours every day. The lines on the road blur. Music becomes background noise. And the space between silence and conversation narrows into something that feels like trust. Real trust. Not just the kind you give to someone to hold your coffee while you run inside, but the kind that lets you show up without your armor.

 We were somewhere in Northern California, winding through dry hills and eucalyptus trees. When Diana turned down the music and said, “I don’t miss him.” I glanced over. “Your ex?” “Yeah,” she said, staring out the window. “At first, I thought I would. 15 years together, a whole shared life. But now, I mostly just miss feeling like someone saw me.

That sat with me for a while. I didn’t rush to fill the silence. That’s one thing Diana had taught me. Some things don’t need fixing, they just need space. Later that day, we pulled into a dusty little campground with no Wi-Fi and barely any other travelers. A picnic table, a fire pit, and a half-dead tree were the only features.

 But it didn’t matter. We were too tired to care. After dinner, ramen and canned beans. Diana poured us each a little whiskey from a flask she kept tucked in her backpack. We sat at the picnic table under the kind of stars you only see when you’re far away from everything else. I used to think I needed structure, she said, eyes on the fire, schedules, plans, knowing what came next, but it just boxed me in.

The house, the husband, the routines. I stopped being a person. I became a role. I nodded slowly. I know what you mean. I’ve been working these jobs that mean nothing to me. following this path that doesn’t feel like mine, like I’m just waiting for something to give. She looked at me then, not a passing glance, a real look, like she was seeing me fully for the first time.

 And this trip, she asked, “I can’t imagine it without you,” I admitted before I even had time to question why I said it. She blinked, then looked back at the fire. Neither can I. There was something raw in the air after that. Not uncomfortable, just charged like we’d passed through a door we couldn’t step back through.

 We didn’t touch that night. Didn’t kiss. Just sat until the fire burned low, sharing things we probably hadn’t told anyone in years. It wasn’t dramatic. No big emotional breakdowns, just real things said quietly under stars that didn’t judge. The next morning, I found her sitting on the hood of the van, bare feet dangling, hair loose around her shoulders.

 She was sipping coffee and humming to herself, looking more alive than I’d ever seen her. “You sleep okay?” I asked. “Best in a long time,” she said. “You?” “Yeah.” We drove most of that day in silence. But it wasn’t the awkward kind. It was the kind that follows closeness, like we didn’t need to prove anything anymore.

 That evening, we parked near a scenic overlook with a view of the ocean. Wind in our faces, sun dipping low, waves crashing below. Diana leaned against the van, arms crossed. “You know what’s funny?” she said. “What? I haven’t felt this alive in years. Not since. I don’t even know. Before the marriage, before everything got so small.

” I looked at her, wind tugging at her hair and said, “I don’t know where this is going, but I’m glad it’s with you.” She didn’t answer right away, just leaned her head against my shoulder, soft and warm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. That night, we didn’t bother setting up separate beds.

 It was too cold, we told ourselves. Just one night, we said. We lay there in Aurora, inches apart, our breaths fogging the same air. Her leg brushed mine, then her hand slowly found mine. I don’t want to be careful anymore,” she whispered into the dark. My heart was pounding. “Neither do I.” And in that moment, quiet, slow, honest, our bond shifted from companionship into something else.

 Not lust, not romance in the movie sense, but desire that had been building quietly in the backseat of this journey. Nothing happened that night beyond the warmth of bodies tangled under a shared blanket. But I knew the boundary was gone. The road ahead was still uncertain. But now I knew one thing for sure. I wasn’t driving alone anymore.

 The first time it really happened when the air shifted so clearly. So finally, I remember the cold more than anything else. We were high in the mountains somewhere between Big Su and the middle of nowhere. The kind of cold that creeps in through cracks in the van doors and bites at your fingertips even when you’re under a blanket.

 It had rained earlier that day and everything smelled like pine needles and wet earth. Aurora was parked on a pulloff beside a grove of redwoods. A view of mistcovered hills out the back window. We hadn’t said much that evening. Just made a simple meal. Rice, beans, canned green chili, and ate in silence, but not tense silence. It was more like we were saving words, holding them back for some reason neither of us fully understood.

 The heater wasn’t working well. I had layered up in two hoodies and thick socks. Diana curled in the van bed wrapped in her sleeping bag shivered once and looked over at me stretched out on the floor. This is stupid. She said, “What is you down there?” Freezing me up here like a queen. I smirked. You claimed the bed day one. She rolled her eyes.

 Get up here. I blinked. You sure? Do I look unsure? She didn’t. She lifted the edge of the blanket like it was an invitation to cross some invisible line we’d both been inching toward for days. I climbed up slowly, careful not to bump her too much. But once I was under the blanket, the warmth hit fast.

 Her body heat, the softness of her sleep shirt brushing my arm, the shared air between us. It was all suddenly a lot. We didn’t touch at first, just laid there side by side, staring up at the ceiling of the van. Our elbows were barely an inch apart. “You always this tense?” she asked softly. “Only when I’m freezing next to my neighbor in the woods?” I joked, voice a little unsteady.

 She laughed lightly, then silence again. A few minutes passed like that, and then without warning, her hand found mine under the blanket. A slow, deliberate movement. No accident. My breath caught. I turned my head slightly. She was already looking at me. I don’t want to be careful anymore. She said, her voice barely a whisper.

 I didn’t answer right away. My heart was hammering, my mind rushing through every version of what this meant, but my body already knew. I turned slightly toward her, brushing her knuckles with mine. Neither do I. She moved closer, not dramatically, just enough so her forehead rested gently against mine.

 The first kiss was quiet, soft, the kind of kiss that asks a question, not demands an answer. But the second one, that one was different. That one came with a certainty that surprised us both. Hungry, honest, real. There was no music, no lights, no fantasy, just the sound of wind outside and two people who had been orbiting each other too long to keep pretending otherwise.

 Our hands found each other like they’d been waiting for it. We didn’t rush. There was no need. The van felt small and sacred, like the rest of the world had been put on pause. She whispered something I didn’t fully catch. Something like, “Finally,” or maybe just a breath, and pulled me closer. We didn’t talk much afterward.

 We didn’t need to. Wrapped around each other under the blankets. I felt her fingers trace lazy patterns across my arm. My head rested near her collarbone. Her breathing deep and steady. Still cold, she murmured. Not even a little. She laughed quietly, the sound muffled by the dark. Then silence again. Sleep came slowly but deeply like our bodies had been waiting for this rest.

 this closeness, this moment of surrender. When I woke in the early morning light, her arm was still across my chest. Her leg tangled with mine. The van was filled with soft blue light and the fog outside made it feel like we were suspended above the world. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to. The line had been crossed and it didn’t feel wrong.

Felt like arriving somewhere we were always meant to go. We reached the California coast a few days later. Diana made me take the long route, tracing the highway that hugged the cliffs. She wanted to see the edge of the world, she said. I think we both needed something that looked like freedom. The road twisted through cypress trees and wild flowers with endless views of crashing waves far below.

 Aurora grumbled a little on the inclines, but she made it. And when we pulled into a quiet, half-for-gotten stretch of beach just off the highway, it felt like we’d stumbled onto some secret nobody else had claimed. The sand was coarse, full of driftwood and old shells. The wind carried salt and something older. We were completely alone.

 That afternoon, we set up camp with the back of the van facing the ocean. No campground, no other travelers, just the sound of waves and gulls overhead. I gathered wood while Diana scavenged a flat patch of sand for the fire. She kicked off her shoes and walked barefoot. Her hair wild in the wind, her laugh easier than I’d ever heard it.

 It was like something had been peeled away from both of us. That evening, we built a fire out of driftwood. It smoked more than it burned, but it was enough to keep us warm. We sat on a blanket, legs stretched toward the flames, wrapped in a shared hoodie because we were both too stubborn to admit we hadn’t packed right for beach nights.

 Diana stared at the fire for a while before speaking. I feel 25 again. I turned to look at her. Why? She shrugged, smiling. Because I’m not planning anything, not checking a calendar. I’m just here with you. It reminds me of what I used to be like before all the rolls. I nodded slowly. You make me forget everything else. That was the truth.

 The usual noise in my head. The worries, the pressure to figure it all out had quieted. Around her, things just felt simple, clear. She leaned in and kissed me, soft at first, then deeper. The sound of the waves just behind us, the crackle of the fire, the faint chill in the air. It all made the moment feel suspended in time.

 There was nothing rushed about it, just the slow unfolding of two people fully choosing each other. Her hands slipped under my jacket, warm and searching. Mine found the curve of her back beneath her sweater. The blanket we sat on became our bed, and the fire cast flickering shadows across our faces as we gave in to something wild and unfiltered.

 It wasn’t about passion, not in the flashy movie scene kind of way. It was about release, about finally letting the weight of all that restraint drop to the sand and get carried away by the tide. Later, when we were wrapped in a blanket, the fire glowing low and the ocean pulling its endless breath beside us, she whispered, “There’s no turning back now, I held her tighter.

 I wouldn’t want to.” She tucked her face into the curve of my neck, and we stayed like that, half asleep, half awake, listening to the surf and the night around us. In the morning, the fire was nothing but ash. The tide had crept up, wiping away most of the footprints we’d left behind. But the van was still there, the same as always, and Diana was beside me, brushing the sand from her arms, hair a mess, eyes still soft with sleep.

 “You look like a teenager who snuck out.” I teased. She grinned. “You don’t look old enough to drive.” We made coffee with the little burner and sat on the back bumper, watching the sun climb over the cliffs. Nothing about the world had changed, but everything between us had. We didn’t talk about what it meant.

 We didn’t need to define it or figure out where it was going. We just got in the van, shut the doors, and kept driving together. By the time we crossed into Arizona, everything about us had shifted. There wasn’t a discussion, no official are we together now talk. We just moved that way, closer, unspoken, natural.

 Diana wasn’t riding along anymore. She was part of it. She was the road trip as much as the gas stations and sunsets and weird little towns we stopped in. We had a rhythm. She navigated. I drove. She made playlists with terrible transitions but perfect song choices. Cooked badly. She teased me for it every single time. Did you season this with air? She asked one night, holding up a forkful of my attempt at skillet pasta.

 It’s minimalist, I said. It’s criminal, she replied, but still ate every bite. We laughed a lot. More than I expected, more than I had in years, honestly. Diana had this way of finding joy in things other people ignored. Old motel with neon signs half lit diners that smelled like burnt coffee and cinnamon. Hand painted signs that promised world’s best miniature horses.

 She dragged me into a roadside rock shop once. We need a crystal, she said. For what? Protection or vibes or just because I want one. We left with a smoky quartz and a guy named Dennis’s entire life story. She taped the stone to the van’s dashboard and named it Gary. Gary protects us from mechanical failures and boring conversations, she declared.

Gary’s doing great, I said. Especially with the boring conversation part. She flicked me on the forehead. There were moments when strangers assumed we were a couple at gas stations, diners, shops. No one ever said anything directly, but the looks were there, the surprised glances, the polite smiles that lingered too long. It didn’t bother her.

 Diana would just flash that confident grin and carry on like she knew exactly who she was and didn’t care what box people tried to put her in. One night, we stopped at a quiet spot near a red rock canyon. No lights for miles, just stars above us like someone spilled salt across black velvet. We lay in the back of the van, doors open, breeze rolling in, and talked in whispers like the night would shatter if we spoke too loud.

 “I used to be scared of being alone,” she said. “Now I think I was just scared of being forgotten.” I turned to her. “You’re unforgettable.” She rolled her eyes, but I saw the way her mouth twitched at the corners. We kissed slowly that night. No rush, no hunger, just warmth, intention. It was different from that beach night. This time it was quiet and tender.

 Felt like we were telling each other things we didn’t have words for. And then there was that night in Santa Fe. We found this little parking spot behind a closed art gallery. The place was completely still, just the two of us wrapped in a blanket in the back of the van, watching the moon rise through the skylight.

 She touched my face softly and whispered, “You’ve reminded me who I am.” I didn’t say anything at first, just kissed her hand because what do you say to that? Later, lying beside her, I realized something. I hadn’t thought about the end of the trip in days. No dread, no mental countdown, just being there with her wherever there was.

 We were a team now. From finding the best diner eggs to navigating closed mountain roads, from fixing a leaky faucet in the van to keeping each other warm when the temperature dropped. It was messy and imperfect and more real than anything I’d had before. Sometimes I’d catch her looking at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

 Not in a romantic way, just full of thought, like she was trying to memorize something. Once as we passed a long stretch of desert, she turned to me and said, “You’re not what I expected. Good or bad?” I asked, she smiled. “Better.” That night, after we made love again, slower this time, quieter, I traced the freckles on her shoulder while she drifted off, her fingers tangled in mine.

 It wasn’t just desire anymore. It was something gentler, something that held both of us in place without needing to define it. The road kept pulling us forward, but it didn’t feel like we were running away. Felt like we were finally arriving. Crossing back into Oregon felt strange. The highway signs looked familiar again.

The trees thicker, the air cooler. We passed a gas station I’d stopped at a dozen times before, and it hit me. We were going home. Only, it didn’t feel like going back. It felt like arriving in a place that hadn’t been the same since we left. 2 months. That’s how long we’d been on the road. Eight states, a dozen campgrounds, hundreds of inside jokes.

 And now, suddenly, it was all winding down. Diana sat beside me with her feet up on the dash. Chewing sunflower seeds and spitting them into a cup like it was a sacred ritual. She hadn’t said much since we left the last rest stop. Neither had I. Our silence wasn’t uncomfortable. just heavy. The road signs started naming towns we knew. I recognized a turnoff to a grocery store I used to stop at after work.

Familiarity made my stomach tighten. You okay? I asked. She nodded, eyes still on the window. Yeah, just processing. That was fair. So was I. When we finally pulled into our neighborhood, the same street lights flickered. The same houses stood in neat rows. The same dog barked at nothing near the corner fence.

Everything looked exactly as we’d left it, but nothing felt the same. I parked Aurora in front of my place. We didn’t move right away. Diana sat up straighter, looking around, lips pressed together. So, I just go back to being your neighbor now. She said it like a joke, but her voice caught at the end. I turned to her.

 Do you want to? She didn’t answer. I mean, we could keep pretending this was just a trip. I said, a fun escape or you stay. She looked at me, then really looked. Her expression was unreadable for a second. Then her eyes softened and she reached across to take my hand. I don’t have a bag packed for this part, she said. Good, I said.

You’re already home. the corners of her mouth curled into the kind of smile that only comes when something finally clicks into place. “No fireworks, no sweeping music, just a soft, steady yes.” “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay,” we stepped out of the van together. She stretched her legs, shielding her eyes from the streetlight glow.

 A few neighbors peeked from behind curtains, pretending not to be watching. “Let them.” She opened the back of Aurora, grabbed her suitcase like it weighed nothing, and followed me to the door. Inside, everything smelled slightly dusty. I hadn’t been home in 2 months, after all. My plants had died. My fridge was empty.

 My bed hadn’t been made since June, but she walked in like she belonged there, set her bag down, looked around. So, this is it, she said. Yep. Sorry, no beach view. She turned, placed her hands on my chest, and said, “Don’t need one.” We ordered pizza that night, sat on the floor with paper plates, her legs draped over mine, reruns playing low on the TV.

 Felt easy, undramatic, real. At some point, I leaned back on my elbows, watching her laugh at something dumb, I said, and realized I wasn’t waiting for the next chapter. I was in it. She stayed that night and the next her toothbrush showed up in the bathroom. A drawer in my dresser became hers. Aurora stayed parked out front like a monument to everything we’d become out there on the road. We never talked about moving in.

It just happened naturally, quietly. No declarations, no big announcements, just two people who didn’t want to be anywhere else. I used to think home was a place. Now I know better. Diana didn’t move in all at once. It happened in pieces. First, it was just the suitcase. Then came the books stacked on my nightstand like they’d always been there.

 Her favorite mug showed up in my kitchen sink one morning, followed by a pair of earrings on the bathroom counter and a sweater hanging on the back of the door. None of it was planned. It just happened like water filling the spaces in a glass. The van stayed parked out front, a little dusty now, but still in one piece.

 Sometimes I’d glance at it through the window while pouring coffee and feel like it was watching us. Like it remembered everything that happened between its four walls. Every conversation, every quiet night, every first, Diana settled into my place like someone who wasn’t trying to take over. Just belong. We got into a rhythm. Mornings were coffee and bare feet on cold floors.

 half-laugh conversations about who left the lights on. She started working again, consulting gigs over Zoom, her voice drifting through the hallway while I tinkered with freelance stuff on my laptop. We gave each other space, but never too much. Evenings were slow. We cooked together well. She cooked and I mostly tried not to ruin things.

 I still burnt toast sometimes. She pretended not to notice. We watched old movies, folded laundry, argued about what to do with the half- deadad plant. I forgot to water before the trip. She saved it, of course. Said everything deserved a second chance. There was another intimate moment a few weeks in.

 It wasn’t wild like the beach or quiet like the mountains. It was after dinner, dishes still in the sink, the smell of garlic in the air. We were both a little tired, the kind of tired that comes from being full, safe, content. She stood in the kitchen, hands still damp from rinsing a pan, and I walked up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and rested my chin on her shoulder.

 She leaned back into me, no words exchanged. We stayed like that for a while, bodies pressed together, the rhythm of our breathing sinking up without trying. Then we moved slowly, easily, like we had nothing to prove. That night wasn’t about passion or chasing something. It was about belonging. Afterward, we lay there in the soft light of the bedroom lamp, limbs tangled. No rush to move.

 She traced a line on my chest with her finger and whispered, “This feels like hours.” I didn’t need to ask what she meant. It was, “On weekends, we started planning new trips. Not grand ones, just ideas. Maps spread across the table. Notes scribbled in the margins. Her handwriting next to mine.” Montana, she’d say too cold, I’d reply.

 Utah, too red. Nova Scotia, too far. We laughed about most of them, knowing it didn’t matter where we went next. What mattered was the wee part. Some nights we sat in the van with the doors open just for the nostalgia. Blanket over our legs, thermos of tea between us, watching the sky like we did on those early nights.

We never talked about what would have happened if she hadn’t walked up with that suitcase. We didn’t have to. People in the neighborhood started asking questions, of course, some more subtle than others. Mr. Talbot across the street started waving with both hands now. The woman with the stroller smiled longer than she used to.

 We didn’t explain. It wasn’t a secret. It just wasn’t anyone’s business. We weren’t trying to be a headline. We were just trying to be happy. and we were. Diana still had her place down the street. She said she liked having the option, but she hadn’t slept there in weeks. Sometimes she’d go check the mail or water her plants.

 But every night, she came home here to me, to us. One afternoon, I found her sitting in the back of the van, notebook open on her lap, pen tapping the edge. She looked up and smiled. Thinking about writing a book? I asked. Maybe,” she said. About the trip, I sat beside her, the cushions still smelling faintly of campfire and sunblock.

 “You think anyone would believe it?” I asked. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “We lived it.” And we had. The road hadn’t just taken me away from my life. who brought me to her.